unmarked, but she’d picked their three winning numbers.
What does it mean? wondered Jack as Ah Por dismissed him and went back to the TV monitor. He thanked her and left the beehive of age and wisdom.
Eddie
H E WENT BACK to Mott Street, to Eddie’s, where he took one of the small tables in the back and made calls over the noise of the Chinese News radio station.
It wasn’t until the third call, to Saint Barnabas Hospital, that he got a hit. The staff had admitted an emergency case by the name Dewey Lai , an assault victim, ten nights earlier. Dew Lay again, their little joke, fuck you .
Jack requested that the hospital fax the pictures of the admittee, which it was required to take, to the main number at the Fifth Precinct. After all, he was already in the precinct.
He called Alexandra, feeling the bag of cherries in hispocket. But all he got was the answering machine and her cheery voice.
He shifted his thoughts back to the body in the river.
Engine
J ACK WAITED FOR the woman in the red jacket at Xe Lua. The place had a bamboo feel and a fake little inside bridge you crossed over to get to the back, where Jack took one of the side tables.
He was hoping she’d spill something good and thought about ordering a for che touh , Vietnamese beef-broth rice noodles with sliced meat, one of his antidotes to the New York City winter.
He kept an eye on the front door, turning over the past hours in his head. In murder cases, cops usually worried about the first forty-eight hours because they feel the perpetrator will flee the area and the jurisdiction.
Because the identification was missing, and because of the way the body was dumped, Jack didn’t feel the time constraint. The killer wasn’t thinking about fleeing, he figured. The perp wasn’t sweating over having left evidence, over getting caught. He was counting on living in plain sight, like he regularly did. He’d just washed away the matter, sai jo keuih . Very devious of him, always thinking, one step ahead. Maybe the vic would sink and never surface. Or it’d take so long that they’d barely recognize him as human when he did rise up. Even if he did float up, they’d never know who he really was, invisible illegal immigrant .
Jack wasn’t surprised that the Ghosts protected Fay Lo’s.
But the Chinese beatdown raid? Did it have anything to do with anything other than the usual gang beef? Chinatown’s dominant gang had its fingers everywhere. But in the Bronx? Had the Chinese Cubans, the c hino cubanos , built up alliances? Who knows? Was it all just about a gambling debt? The Ghosts were challenged by the Dragons everywhere they operated. Was someone trying to make an example of Singarette?
S HE WALKED IN , the red jacket glowing, exchanging greetings with the waitstaff, the cashier, obviously a regular here. She spotted Jack and demurely took a seat at his table, aware of the attention swinging her way. He half rose and poured her a cup of hot tea, addressing her politely.
“ Dim yeung ching foo nei? ” he asked. “How should I address you?”
“Just call me Huong,” she answered, a slight Vietnamese accent on her Hong Kong Cantonese now. Huong , remembered Jack, meant “rose” in Vietnamese. The color red again . She had a robust aura about her, a wholesome look. Mature fruit, but not old tofu .
Wasting no time, she ordered a bun cha gio , vegetarian vermicelli, to his hearty pho engine, for che touh .
“It’s freezing out,” Jack said, observing the half-empty restaurant. “Must be bad for business.”
“That’s how it is in February and March.”
“How did you know him?” Jack asked. “About the wake?”
“I saw the name in the free newspaper, that the wake was at Wah Fook. Very close by. Jun Zhang. I wasn’t sure it was him.”
He took a sip of tea. “How do you know him?”
“We were co-workers,” she answered, gung yau . “At a restaurant.”
“What can you tell me about him?”
“What happened to
What does it mean? wondered Jack as Ah Por dismissed him and went back to the TV monitor. He thanked her and left the beehive of age and wisdom.
Eddie
H E WENT BACK to Mott Street, to Eddie’s, where he took one of the small tables in the back and made calls over the noise of the Chinese News radio station.
It wasn’t until the third call, to Saint Barnabas Hospital, that he got a hit. The staff had admitted an emergency case by the name Dewey Lai , an assault victim, ten nights earlier. Dew Lay again, their little joke, fuck you .
Jack requested that the hospital fax the pictures of the admittee, which it was required to take, to the main number at the Fifth Precinct. After all, he was already in the precinct.
He called Alexandra, feeling the bag of cherries in hispocket. But all he got was the answering machine and her cheery voice.
He shifted his thoughts back to the body in the river.
Engine
J ACK WAITED FOR the woman in the red jacket at Xe Lua. The place had a bamboo feel and a fake little inside bridge you crossed over to get to the back, where Jack took one of the side tables.
He was hoping she’d spill something good and thought about ordering a for che touh , Vietnamese beef-broth rice noodles with sliced meat, one of his antidotes to the New York City winter.
He kept an eye on the front door, turning over the past hours in his head. In murder cases, cops usually worried about the first forty-eight hours because they feel the perpetrator will flee the area and the jurisdiction.
Because the identification was missing, and because of the way the body was dumped, Jack didn’t feel the time constraint. The killer wasn’t thinking about fleeing, he figured. The perp wasn’t sweating over having left evidence, over getting caught. He was counting on living in plain sight, like he regularly did. He’d just washed away the matter, sai jo keuih . Very devious of him, always thinking, one step ahead. Maybe the vic would sink and never surface. Or it’d take so long that they’d barely recognize him as human when he did rise up. Even if he did float up, they’d never know who he really was, invisible illegal immigrant .
Jack wasn’t surprised that the Ghosts protected Fay Lo’s.
But the Chinese beatdown raid? Did it have anything to do with anything other than the usual gang beef? Chinatown’s dominant gang had its fingers everywhere. But in the Bronx? Had the Chinese Cubans, the c hino cubanos , built up alliances? Who knows? Was it all just about a gambling debt? The Ghosts were challenged by the Dragons everywhere they operated. Was someone trying to make an example of Singarette?
S HE WALKED IN , the red jacket glowing, exchanging greetings with the waitstaff, the cashier, obviously a regular here. She spotted Jack and demurely took a seat at his table, aware of the attention swinging her way. He half rose and poured her a cup of hot tea, addressing her politely.
“ Dim yeung ching foo nei? ” he asked. “How should I address you?”
“Just call me Huong,” she answered, a slight Vietnamese accent on her Hong Kong Cantonese now. Huong , remembered Jack, meant “rose” in Vietnamese. The color red again . She had a robust aura about her, a wholesome look. Mature fruit, but not old tofu .
Wasting no time, she ordered a bun cha gio , vegetarian vermicelli, to his hearty pho engine, for che touh .
“It’s freezing out,” Jack said, observing the half-empty restaurant. “Must be bad for business.”
“That’s how it is in February and March.”
“How did you know him?” Jack asked. “About the wake?”
“I saw the name in the free newspaper, that the wake was at Wah Fook. Very close by. Jun Zhang. I wasn’t sure it was him.”
He took a sip of tea. “How do you know him?”
“We were co-workers,” she answered, gung yau . “At a restaurant.”
“What can you tell me about him?”
“What happened to
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